The Long Way Round
by JacquiT
Summary: "Because I am a divorced man with one leg and you are a vicar's daughter," he replied, and she'd never heard herself called such a mundane thing in such a reverent way.  Milner/Sam.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I humbly present to you my first Foyle's War fic, which I hope you will enjoy. First things first - I have to thank GiuliettaC for her help with this. She helped me put some polish on this, and Brit-picked for me. And AnneBronteRocks deserves a nod as well, for helping me sort out a few details - and also for hooking me up with GiuliettaC ;)

Fair warning: This will be a slightly AU version of events... I hope that doesn't put many people off. I just adore Milner and Sam together.

Enjoy!

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><p>When Paul Milner married Jane Parker on Christmas Day 1935, he couldn't remember being happier. He had no family – his parents and elder brother had died long ago, and his father's mother had finally passed away in her sleep about six months before his wedding. By that time she didn't recognize Paul any longer; he'd known that she hadn't cared much for him when she did. But just after the Christmas service, with a handful of friends and Jane's parents and sister, Paul set up a family of his own, starting with his lovely wife.<p>

Jane was an absolutely glowing bride. Her mother was ecstatic. Paul, a constable with the Hastings Police, was a good man, and Mrs. Parker couldn't wait to put her younger daughter in his steady hands. Jane's father could not have cared less, and would gleefully have given her away to anyone who'd asked without a second thought.

Paul and Jane had bonded over detached relatives – her father, his grandmother. They had long discussions holding hands, walking along the water, about how much they would love their children, how much attention they would shower upon them, about how they knew better, could do better, would be the best parents any child could ask for.

When she looked back, Jane knew that her desire to have children had been tenuous at best. It was buoyed by the strength of Paul's dreams, by his enthusiasm and his hope.

But six months into her marriage, Jane suffered a miscarriage. She hadn't known she was expecting at all, and hadn't felt the slightest twinge of pain. There had only been an inordinate amount of blood in the morning, and a diagnosis by mid-afternoon. Assured by the doctor that these things happened, she said nothing to her husband; when he asked about her melancholy, she told him it was nothing. Paul didn't quite believe her, but having no other evidence that anything was amiss, he trusted his wife.

She'd known she was expecting for a handful of days when it happened again four months later. The doctor saw no reason for concern. Jane, however, knew – in the same way she'd always known that her mother was miserable, that her father would happily choose a bottle of whisky over his daughters – that they'd never have children. She knew as soon as she realized it that she was perfectly at peace with a childless life. And she also knew that she wouldn't be able to look her ridiculously optimistic husband in the eye and tell him that.

She'd been Mrs. Milner for eighteen months on the day she visited a doctor of questionable credentials – the only one who didn't insist she bring her husband with her – and was fitted with a cervical cap.

Either way, there would be no children, so she felt no guilt whatsoever. This way, she wouldn't have to suffer another messy loss. But if Jane were honest with herself – which she was, on occasion, when the night was dark and Paul slept peacefully beside her – this was really what she'd wanted all along. Her husband adored her, and her life was simple and tidy and quiet, a far cry from how she'd grown up, with a nervous wreck for a mother and an alcoholic for a father. Paul would be disappointed when he realized there wouldn't be any children, but would come to terms with it if he thought that there was nothing either of them could do to change it.

Paul had no idea about either miscarriage. He'd known that Jane had gone through some periods of sadness since they married, but she'd always said it was nothing. So he'd just hold her closer at night, and didn't take it personally when she refused intimacy, and she'd be back to normal within a few days.

He asked whether she'd seen signs that she was expecting fairly frequently; the longer they were married, the more hesitant he became to bring it up. She knew it was because he didn't want to upset her, or make her think he blamed her for his dreams of a houseful of children not coming true. She had less difficulty lying about there being nothing wrong than she had pretending that she was upset about it.

On their second anniversary, she let him make love to her; in the quiet afterward, he held her with her back to his chest, and let his hand caress the soft, flat space between her navel and the wiry tuft of hair that covered her most intimate place. "Two years," he whispered.

She smiled sleepily. "Best two years of my life." And with the exception of the miscarriages, it was true.

"Mine, too. But . . . I'm worried."

"About what?"

He paused a long moment, as he always did when bringing up their lack of children. "I'd hoped we'd be parents by now."

"It's nothing to worry about," she replied easily, and yawned. "Doctor says so."

Another long pause. "Jane . . . if there _were_ something wrong . . . you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would, darling," she replied, and covered his hand with hers. She fell asleep.

But Paul did not, not for a long while. If there was nothing wrong with her, he reasoned, then _he_ must be the cause of why they hadn't – perhaps wouldn't ever – conceive.

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><p>Paul's belief that he couldn't father a child – a failure, as he saw it, although not one he had any control over – drove him to focus more intensely on other aspects of his life. For the most part, that meant his job, which wound up working in his favor, since his superiors on the police force came to see him as not just intelligent, but driven as well. He'd always known he wanted to be a detective, and if being a little too interested in his job was going to get him there, then so be it. At least one of his plans wouldn't come to nothing.<p>

The belief also sat in the back of his head on the day in the late summer of 1939 when he enlisted in the army. Jane didn't want him to do it, but how could he not? He was going to do his duty by his country, and if he happened to pay the ultimate price for British freedom, then at least Jane could remarry and have children.

He hadn't, of course, anticipated the injury he received, or Jane's reaction to it. He understood her anger at him, and even to a certain extent her revulsion. He _didn't _understand why it lasted as long as it did, or why she seemed so utterly unable to accept him any longer. He didn't understand why she was suddenly not just cold in private, but unkind in public, in a quietly resentful, uncooperative kind of way – it reminded him sharply of his grandmother.

Her leaving for Kate's was almost a relief. He could continue to heal and come to terms with his prosthetic without her impatient comments looming, without having to face her thinly-veiled irritation. It was lonely, but maybe he needed the loneliness to remind him of how much he needed her, how much he loved her. Maybe he deserved it for enlisting when she'd asked him not to.

But then, she came back, and not only continued to be unreasonable and unkind to him, she was abominable to Sam, who he considered a friend. It had been all he could do to calm her down enough to agree not to turn Sam out of the house completely in the dark of night with nowhere to go.

And then there had been the bicarbonate of soda she'd been taking since her return, and all the questions that it raised. When Mr. Foyle used the words "morning sickness" he felt as though he'd been punched in the gut – not only had Jane been gone for the last three months, before she left she hadn't allowed him to touch her. If she _was _expecting, she wasn't expecting _his _child.

The morning following Mr. Foyle's comment, he watched her take the bicarbonate down from the cupboard in the kitchen after she'd put his breakfast in front of him. She measured some into a glass of water, stirred it, and then drank it in one swallow. She was a little pale, he noticed, when she sat down next to him.

"Are you all right?" he asked, and tried to put his hand on her arm.

She moved it, rubbing her hands together. "I'm fine."

"What do you take that for, Jane?"

She sighed. "Nothing. Just indigestion – it'll pass."

"First thing in the morning?"

She wouldn't look at him and didn't respond, just offered a thin smile and a cup of tea, and Paul knew he'd been lied to.

And as soon as she came back, she was gone again. With barely enough time between her arrivals and departures for them to become comfortable with one another, there had been little room for any attempted reconciliation. Which was not to say that Paul hadn't tried; he desperately wanted a second chance at the life he'd dreamed of with Jane, even if that wouldn't mean having children of their own. But he couldn't possibly have a marriage when he was in Hastings and his wife was in Wales, which was evidently where she preferred to be.

For the first six months Jane had been with Kate, he believed she would return. He was sure that she just needed time to adjust – they both did, he thought, in all fairness. He had done everything he could to make sure he wouldn't be a burden _when_, not _if_, she returned. She'd been gone a year before that belief faded to a fragile hope, and a few months later, he realized the hope had gone, as well.

He adjusted his routines and the way he did things so that they suited himself, rather than trying to guess how they would best suit Jane. He removed their wedding photo from the mantelpiece. He found himself parceling up her things, which he'd send to her about every six weeks or so – always with a note, asking how she was and what she was doing in Wales, but he never received a response, even when he sent an uncharacteristically aloof letter suggesting that they divorce. Eventually, not only were all of Jane Milner's things absent from what had once been their home, Jane Milner herself was absent from her husband's daily thoughts.

And that was where Sam came into it. First and foremost, she'd been a colleague and a friend. When Jane had first gone, she'd been there, and that was more than enough. Her understanding, her patience, her no-questions-asked support. It was no more than she offered anyone else, but Paul knew that even if it were, she didn't pity him. She wasn't built for pity.

He'd discovered this, of all places, in an air raid shelter. Sam had driven himself and Mr. Foyle to a boarding house so that the two detectives could make some inquiries after a missing nurse. They spoke briefly with the landlady, and then Mr. Foyle set Paul to searching her room while the DCS took a walk to a nearby shop which the landlady had indicated that the missing nurse liked to frequent. Foyle had told Sam to wait for Paul, and then meet him by the shop.

The air-raid sirens sounded about twenty minutes later. Paul lumbered down the stairs, following the landlady outside. He found Sam hovering anxiously by the front door to the house, waiting for him. He scowled and took her hand, running with her as fast as he could with the other occupants of the house to the public shelter behind the school just down the street.

Once inside, the landlady nervously insisted that everyone sit down, although there wasn't much choice for Paul, as the shelter wasn't tall enough for him to stand. Sam was offered a chair, which she immediately tried to surrender to him, but he simply shook his head and sank awkwardly to the floor.

"Are you all right, Sam?" he asked quietly, once the door was closed.

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied, although her knee was bouncing. "Are you sure you won't–"

"I'll be fine," he assured her. "Promise."

Sam nodded distractedly and stilled her knee. "Do you mind my asking . . . does it bother you much? Your leg."

Paul smiled. "No, not much. Down's easy enough; it's up that's a problem – well, not a problem, really. Ungraceful."

"It doesn't hurt?"

"Not any longer, not much. Too many hills and stairs hurt, and some days the prosthetic hurts – like spending too long in a pair of ill-fitting shoes."

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly. "I didn't mean to pry – never liked being in small spaces, even before the war. Makes me just a bit jumpy, I suppose."

He smiled warmly at her. "It's all right, Sam. I don't mind."

"And you get around all right at home? It's not too difficult?"

"It was just an adjustment," he replied, and tilted his head to the side. "Lots of those, really."

"I suppose it was easier, when you had Jane," said Sam, and then her hand shot up to cover her mouth in horror. "I'm so sorry, Paul–"

"Sam," he said, his steady, gentle tone unchanged, and he reached out for her other hand. "It's all right." He smiled then, to prove it, and squeezed her hand. Which, he realized belatedly, was a bit of a mistake, since it made him realize how much he liked holding Sam's hand. So he squeezed gently once more and let go, and his voice took on a breezier tone. "Actually, it's nice. Having someone talk about it openly."

She nodded and folded her hands together. "I suppose it's not easy keeping it all in."

"No," he conceded. "She's not coming back, though. It's clear enough." Paul looked around the shelter, not wanting to meet Sam's eyes.

"Haven't you got any family?" came her soft voice.

He shook his head. "No – my parents are both gone. I had an elder brother, but he died of consumption."

"Isn't that how Mrs. Foyle died?"

Privately, Paul wondered how she could go on talking about death and loss whilst it was probably happening above them, but then that was Sam – open, curious, unembarrassed, wanting to understand all that she could. "I think Mrs. Foyle died of typhoid."

"Oh, right," she replied, with her eyebrows raised, as though she'd just recalled that the grass was green. "How old was your brother?"

"Only six," said Paul, and finally looked up at Sam. "I had just turned four when he died." Paul paused, thinking about him. There was one photo of the two of them, taken about a month before his brother fell ill, and it was one of his most cherished possessions. It stood in the place that had been vacated by his wedding photo. "His name was James – really, I don't remember much about him, but I do remember following him around everywhere and wanting to do everything just like him. When he was finally taken to hospital no one would tell me where he was or what was happening. I think that's why I wanted to become a detective so much – I hated the injustice of it; I hated not knowing."

They heard rumbling then, and the ground shook, and crashing and explosions were heard, but they were distant. Paul watched Sam tense up and instinctively reached up for her hand again; Sam squeezed it appreciatively, and her eyes closed.

Then the noise settled and there was quiet in the shelter, waiting for the all-clear, but it didn't come. Nervous chattering around them resumed.

"Do you think Mr. Foyle is all right?"

"Yes, I'm sure he's fine," he replied, and did not want to let go of her hand for all the world.

She nodded woodenly a moment. "Yes," she said, "of course, he's all right. He's fine." She shook her head, and it seemed to have cleared her heavy thoughts. "It's just that I can't help but think of Mr. Foyle sometimes as I think of my own father. They do all the looking after – my father looks after his parish, Mr. Foyle looks after all of Hastings – but who looks after them?"

Paul smiled up at her. "I'd say they're both in safe hands with you, Sam."

Sam wobbled her head contemplatively. "I think they each might disagree, for different reasons," she replied, and then looked back at Paul. "But who looks after you, is what I want to know."

"I manage well enough," said Paul. "Unless you've noticed something lacking – uneven shave? Wrinkled shirts?" he teased. She smiled, and a little color came to her cheeks. "It _was_ easier when Jane was still at home, but being at home with Jane felt . . . oppressive. She didn't want to be there."

"You know I would never have paired you with Jane," said Sam brightly. "Not that I really knew her, but she seemed so . . . I don't know. _Pinched_. Every time I met her." She turned to look down at Paul, whose steady gaze was on her. Neither seemed to notice that they were still holding hands. "And you're so easy. And you've always been very kind to me."

Paul's thoughts went back to when she'd been out of a place to stay thanks to a German bomb. She'd been a gracious house-guest, and Jane had been away at the time, much to his confusion. Sam's friendship was like a tonic. Just having someone else in the house to talk to had been such an bolster; when Jane had returned home unexpectedly and insisted that Sam leave, he didn't know if he felt worse for Sam or for himself.

"She must've changed awfully," continued Sam. "I know war changes people and she must've been just terrified when you left, and then angry, I'd imagine, when you came back. I would be if the army took my husband and sent him back missing something."

Paul grinned; he couldn't help it. Sam's matter-of-fact analysis of what had happened to his leg made the whole thing seem just a little less heavy, and he answered her a little more honestly than he might otherwise have done.

"The thing is, Sam . . . I don't think she did." He looked up at her, and watched her features contract into a scowl. "I don't think she changed. Right before she left some things came to light that . . . I'd missed, frankly. And I felt such a fool. I'm a detective; ought to have detected the goings-on in my own house. Didn't." He cringed a little when he realized he sounded distinctly like Mr. Foyle. "In any case, I think that she _was_ angry when I came back from Norway, just not on my behalf. I think she'd rather I'd have died than come back and be a burden to her."

Sam scowled. "I say, how did you ever end up with someone so _awful_?"

Her remark was so unexpected, and so unexpectedly blunt, that he guffawed. "Sam!"

"Well, I'm sorry, Paul, but honestly." She shook her head unapologetically.

"I loved her," he said in defense of himself, almost absently. "I really did. I think she went out with me because I asked her to; she married me for the same reason, and because she wanted to get away from her parents. She was always rather – what did you call her? Pinched? – but never toward me. Until I lost my leg."

"Did you have a good marriage until then?" asked Sam.

"I thought _I_ did," he replied honestly. "I'm not sure _she_ did."

"It's rather a blessing, then, that God saw fit not to present any little Milners to the world. They might not have a mother now."

Paul cleared his throat. "Jane was expecting once," he said.

"Oh – I'm sorry. Mr. Foyle's right, I _really_ ought to think better before I speak."

"It wasn't mine."

"Oh." She turned toward him and squeezed the hand she held. "Paul. I'm so sorry."

"I think Mr. Foyle knew." He drew in a sudden breath. "Sam – no – I'm sorry – I really shouldn't be–" He let out the breath he'd sucked in and looked away, but did not, did _not_, let go of the precious hand he held. "You'd be an awfully effective interrogator." Then he looked back at her, fully expecting the pity, but it wasn't there. All of the things he felt himself – the confusion, the anger, the injustice – were. But not pity. And that made his chest tighten in a way it hadn't in a long time. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. She's removed herself from my life – maybe she'll find what she's looking for in Wales."

"And what about you?" pressed Sam. "Will you divorce her?"

He nodded slowly, having come to the realization that he'd need to do just that only recently. "One way or another . . . yes."

"Good," said Sam, with a firm nod of the head.

"Good?" he smiled. "From a vicar's daughter?"

She sat up straight. "You know better than most people that I'm not a typical vicar's daughter." She squeezed his hand again. "I know what my father and uncles would say about it – that divorce is a shameful business, that marriage is a sacred arrangement not to be trifled with, that the law of man ought not to invite itself where God's law alone stands – I've heard it _hundreds_ of times – _literally_ _hundreds_, the number of weddings my father's officiated at. But I can't see any reason for two perfectly miserable people to stay together if it means they'll just remain perfectly miserable." She looked down at him, her face all seriousness. "And I do sincerely hope you're _not_ ashamed, Paul."

His cheeks burned, and he looked away a moment. "I'm not blameless," he said. "Jane didn't want me to enlist; I did it anyway. She never forgave me for that. Relationships are always a two-way street, Sam."

She conceded that was true, but pressed him. "I hardly think anybody can be blamed for wanting to do their bit. And once all was said and done, honestly . . . what were you to do?" she asked. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

Paul was quiet a long moment before he quietly replied, "You're very kind."

"Not just being kind," she said, and when she looked at him, he felt as though she was gazing straight into his soul. "You're a good man, Sergeant Milner. Jane's daft."

He smiled up at her and didn't bother to hide his admiration. "Thank you, Miss Stewart."

And then the all-clear had sounded, and Sam helped Paul to his feet. When they emerged from the shelter, they were still holding hands.

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><p>Thanks for reading!<p>

Jacqui


	2. Chapter 2

_Published with much gratitude to my beta GiuliettaC, without whom this chapter would be shaky, and that's being incredibly kind. She's less beta reader and more full-blown writing coach. _

_Enjoy!_

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><p><em><strong>March 1942<strong>_

For the briefest of moments, Paul Milner was glad for the wartime shortage of Scotch. It was the only thing keeping him sober, and therefore employed.

It was also what had killed his friend Will Grayson – that, and an illegal still, and a now-dead girl, and an irresponsible pub landlord – so the gladness was short-lived.

As soon as one of the constables had come for Alan Carter and booked him, he'd gone to his office. He didn't say a word to Mr. Foyle; his head hurt, and he just wanted to be alone. If Carter was charged at all for his part in Will's death, it would be for a lesser crime than murder, and it didn't change anything. Will was still dead, and it was still completely senseless. But at least now he'd be able to tell Mr. Grayson what had happened.

But like the flash of gratitude he'd felt, Paul's solitude was short-lived; there was a knock at his door, and an irritated sigh from the detective sergeant before he cleared his throat. "Yes?"

Sam opened the door, in a somewhat awkward maneuver, since she was carrying two teacups. "I thought you could use a cuppa," she said hopefully.

He stood and accepted one of the cups gratefully. "Thank you, Sam."

"Want some company?" Her tone was bright.

"Actually, I. . . ." He'd wanted to be alone just a moment ago, but couldn't say no to her, and not just because of her kindness. "I'd like that."

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. They both sat down, Sam in her chair on the opposite side of Paul's desk, where there was usually a mound of paperwork he'd need to re-arrange in order to see her from his own chair. Today, she noted, there were only two files, which she correctly assumed were those pertaining to Susan Davies' and Will Grayson's deaths.

"It's just tea, I'm afraid – nothing else in the kitchen. But it's very fresh, just put out by Brookie."

Paul sipped. "It's good, Sam. How do you like Sergeant Brooke?"

Sam noted the hollow tone of his voice, cold and flat compared to its usual rich timbre; it made her want to make him smile, at least. "He's very nice. More friendly than Sergeant Rivers." She grinned over the rim of her teacup.

But Paul just nodded. "How's Andrew? Have you heard from him recently?"

She took in a breath and paused a long moment, letting her eyes wander his office. "Andrew's . . . seeing someone else."

"I did wonder," he replied, remembering how unguarded she had been the other night, dancing with some of the American soldiers. "I'm sorry, Sam."

She shook her head and looked up at him again. "It's all right. I got a letter from him not long ago – honestly, it wasn't really working out with him in Debden in any case, and he was very nice about it. Although it really has been sort of awkward with Mr. Foyle."

"I can easily imagine. Although . . . a letter? I'd have expected better from him." Paul narrowed his eyes as he sipped his tea again, his disapproval obvious.

She sent him a grateful look. "I did, too, but I think he's more than a little war-weary."

It made him think of Will; "war-weary" described his friend exactly the last time he'd seen him. "He's seen his share, certainly." He averted his eyes and sipped his tea while he brought his expression under control. "Any plans for this evening?" he asked brightly, though he found he didn't feel remotely bright.

"Yes, actually – Private Farnetti asked me to a film – a _movie_, as he says," she reported with a smile. The word felt odd in her mouth.

"What are you going to see?" he asked.

"_Sergeant York_," she replied. "It's a war film, but everything's about war these days."

Paul scowled; he'd been trying to direct the conversation away from war of any kind. "You'd think they'd steer clear of them, at least for a while," he said disdainfully. "Aren't films supposed to let you escape reality for a bit?"

Sam shrugged a little. "I suppose. They also allow you to see things from others' perspectives and help broaden your horizons."

"But _war_ doesn't do that," he said. "Although maybe I'm just ruined for war films. Even if someone made a realistic film about war – _especially_ if they did – I wouldn't watch it."

Sam was quiet a moment as she considered her next question. She didn't want to put him off or upset him, but she did want him to know how much she admired his bravery.

"I can't imagine," she decided upon. Her voice was soft. Quite apart from the effects of war she knew his marriage had suffered, his missing leg must be a daily, tangible reminder of what he'd been through, and she knew that injured soldiers came back home with much more than physical scars.

Paul found comfort in those three simple, honest words from Sam. _Yes, you went through hell, _she was saying. _No, I'm not going to tell you it's over now, and it's time to move on._ It made him want to hold her hand again. He sighed and unconsciously drew his chair closer to her, even though there was still a desk between them.

"Will saved my life, in Trondheim." He looked at her, his voice had regained most of its warmth. "I did what I could for him and his father . . . I got answers for them. It'll never feel like I've done enough." These were darker thoughts than he usually shared with Sam, but Will's face and the senselessness of his death kept churning in his mind. He knew that Sam would listen and offer whatever comfort she could.

And she did, post haste: "But at least you stopped it happening to anyone else. Hopefully with Carter put away, others will think twice about trying to bootleg Scotch."

Paul drank the last of his tea and set his cup down on the desk. "I hope so, Sam." He was grateful for her unwavering optimism, because he didn't feel it. "Will was a good man; he didn't deserve an end like that."

"Did you go to school together?" Sam had seen her father employ distraction tactics on grieving parishioners before. Those who'd lost loved ones would come to him seeking counsel for their pain and grief. Reverend Stewart knew he couldn't relieve it, and that only time would ease it. But more often than not they'd leave his company able to recall fond memories of the deceased, which brought them comfort.

"We did," said Paul. "We weren't terribly close there, but we volunteered at the same time, and we went to training together. It was comforting to have a familiar face with me, a little bit of home when we were so far away."

"Why did you join the army?" asked Sam. It was something she'd always wondered about Paul. "You were already part of the police force . . . you wouldn't likely have been conscripted."

"And stand idly by whilst Germans ran amok again?" He shook his head. "No. My father died in the Great War – the Battle of Ypres, at St. Julien, in 1915. I was only five. My mother was expecting when he left, but didn't know it; he died before her letter reached him with the news. And then she died in childbirth that autumn."

She almost wished she hadn't asked. "How awful. You were all alone and only five."

Paul was quiet a moment. "It was a very difficult year," he said finally. "Just after my brother had died."

Sam's heart broke for him. There was a dignity in the way he picked a speck of lint off of his shoulder and would not look at her, but held his chin up.

She rallied for him. "Where did you stay after that?"

"My grandmother's – my father's mother," he said. "It wasn't easy for either of us." He met her eyes. "She frankly didn't want me there."

The truth of his words struck, and silenced him for a moment. He could see the pain in Sam's eyes and wished, almost, that he hadn't said it. He wondered if he'd said too much. But it felt so liberating to be able to just talk to someone. He remembered the conversation they'd had in the bomb shelter . . . she hadn't pitied him then, and he knew she wouldn't now.

"Anyway – you wanted to know why I joined up. It was because Jane and I didn't have children and it didn't look like children were going to happen for us. We'd already been married four years. I volunteered because I wanted to do what I could to keep Germany from making more orphans. I thought . . . maybe I was meant to join, and that way someone who _did_ have children wouldn't have to. All I'd leave behind was a widow – not that I relished that thought – but I reasoned Jane would've been able to move on."

"It was a very noble thing to do, Paul."

"I certainly thought so at the time." The wry kind of smile on his lips faded quickly. "Probably more accurate to say angry and stubborn."

"Lots of people are angry at the Germans," she replied. "It's only natural, isn't it? Sinking our boats, bombing our houses, killing our soldiers."

"Is that why you joined the MTC?" he asked.

"Honestly, no." She shook her head. "I wanted to be useful _outside_ of the vicarage. There's a lot to be done around a vicarage – all of it quite domestic, which isn't a particular gift of mine. If one wanted merely to be busy, a vicarage is the place to be. But I didn't want to simply be busy, I wanted to do my bit for Britain. One Sunday, there was an MTC driver at the service – passing through, had a great aunt in the parish – and she encouraged me to join up. How could I resist?" She abandoned her now-empty cup on Paul's desk, and folded her hands in her lap. "I felt so blessèd important the first time I put on this uniform."

"You _are_ important," he said, in his low, warm tone. "You know that, don't you?"

She blushed a little and smiled over at him. "It's sometimes hard to remember, especially compared to what you and Mr. Foyle do. But I _do _feel important, most of the time, and that was what I wanted when I joined up. I had a terrible disappointment as a child, you know. I once told Mr. Foyle I wanted to become a nun, but that wasn't entirely true . . . I wanted," she leaned in, conspiratorially, "to be a vicar. My father and uncles were all vicars, and all of my cousins – all boys – were planning on becoming vicars. So why couldn't I become a vicar too?"

Paul noticed how bright her eyes were at the memory. It made him smile, and it relaxed him that she didn't require a response from him to carry on talking.

Sam, in turn, was grateful that Paul didn't mind her chatter; it seemed to buoy his spirits, at least a little. "My eldest cousin, John, broke the news to me – not very kindly, I might add. But really I couldn't think of a better job – you get your very own parish and church, you get to teach and sing, tell stories . . . it all seemed so perfectly glamorous at the time. Of course, I know _now _how hard a job it is: long hours, all the worst of humanity at times, downright thankless and all, but back then it was all I wanted to do. Other girls at school held tea parties for their dolls; I wrote sermons for mine and delivered them to their little porcelain ears."

Paul laughed suddenly as he imagined a tiny Samantha Stewart, coppery hair twisted into plaits, in a slightly grubby pinafore, slouching knee socks, and scuffed button-strap shoes, her eyebrows arched into her hairline and a perfectly serious expression on her face as she read from hand-scrawled notes to a congregation of dolls.

"What did you preach about?" he asked.

"I hardly remember." Sam laughed along with him. "Kindness, I'm sure, and the importance of sharing. I _might _have had to speak to them on occasion about not bickering with girls from other villages who insist they're cousins to the Princesses, even when _everyone knows_ that they are _not_."

Paul couldn't help laughing again. "Did you really, Sam?"

"Her name was Susan Winthrop and it was _outrageous_!" explained Sam in her defense, her humor evident in rounded eyes and upturned lips. "Of _course_ she wasn't remotely royal – plain as the nose on anyone's face – but no one would tell her she wasn't. Everyone felt sorry for her because her mother was _quite _peculiar and her father simply didn't know what to do with a girl. She had a couple of the girls in Sunday school calling her Your Royal Highness."

Paul shook his head as he got the last of his chuckles out. "How old were you?"

Sam thought a moment. "Do you remember those children who were collecting scraps a few years ago?"

"Those little ruffians . . . yes, of course. They were endearing, though, in their way."

The unguarded way Paul said this made Sam smile. "I was about that same age, a bit younger perhaps. _Susan_ was slightly older."

"Should jolly well have known better, then," he replied.

"Absolutely!" she exclaimed, and Paul laughed a little more.

When they'd both settled, he looked her over for a long moment. "Thank you, Sam." His eyes were still smiling.

She blushed a little. "Oh – the tea was nothing. As I said, it was Brookie."

"But you delivered it," he countered. "And you knew I needed a friend."

"You'd do the same for me." Sam's confidence in this fact was apparent in the way she held her chin up and met his eyes.

"I would – any time, Sam. But for now, I've got to finish these reports, and you've got to get ready to meet Private Farnetti."

Sam left the office after Paul extracted a promise to tell him about the film the following day. He didn't actually want to hear about the film itself, but he did want to make sure Private Farnetti had behaved himself.

When Paul reached home late that night, he was grateful for Sam. The conversation and the laughing felt good; he could feel less tension in his shoulders, and his head didn't hurt. It was, perhaps, one of the most pleasant cups of tea he'd ever had.

* * *

><p><strong>August 1942<strong>

"Want to buy me a drink?"

It was Sam asking, as she stood just outside Paul's office door. She had on her hopeful smile, and looked a little desperate.

He looked up at her from his desk. "All right," he replied. "I'll just finish this; won't take me a minute."

Sam let out a relieved breath. "Oh, thank you – I'll meet you out front?"

"No," he said, his eyes on the papers he was sorting through. "One . . . second . . . there." With his papers arranged just so on his desk, ready for the next day, Paul rose and collected his hat. "All set."

A few minutes later they were settled with matching pints. Sam was uncharacteristically quiet, so he started the conversation. "What's on your mind, Sam?"

"It's Joe," she said, shifting her gaze from the empty fireplace to his eyes. "He's asked me to marry him."

"Oh," was all Paul could say for a moment. He swallowed hard and couldn't account for the reason his mouth went dry. "And . . . what did you say?"

"I said I couldn't possibly answer him now. I need some time to think about it. I mean, if I married him it would mean I'd have to move to an entirely new country, with not a single familiar face except his. Of course he thinks his mother would adore me, and makes California sound lovely, but if I were homesick I'd be able to make _anyplace _and_ anyone _sound lovely."

He nodded distractedly and considered his next question carefully. "Do you love him?"

She winced. "I'm _very _fond of him," she said. "He's kind, and sweet, and charming – I mean, once you get used to his mannerisms. And he _does_ like to talk."

"You have that in common," he teased.

Sam chuckled in reply. "I just don't know if that's enough."

Paul paused a moment to consider. "It might be," he told her honestly. "Common interests . . . respect . . . mutual goals in life . . . those are just as important as love. More even, considering that marriage is supposed to be a partnership. But I don't know, Sam – you have to remember you're talking to a man who's waiting for a divorce."

She hesitated a moment before asking, "Did you know right away you wanted to marry Jane?" Her voice was soft.

He smiled; his marriage was defunct, but some of the memories were still pleasant, if he didn't examine them too deeply. "Yes," he replied quietly and honestly. "Almost. I just knew that when I was with her I felt on top of the world."

Sam sighed and sipped her bitter. "You don't mind me asking?" she queried, just a touch of concern in her voice. They knew each other well enough by now that she was almost certain he wouldn't mind her personal questions.

"No, not at all." He shook his head. "Although, you're the only person who knows I'm not actually divorced."

"Why?" she asked, furrowing her brow inquisitively.

"It's embarrassing, Sam."

"Oh, Paul," she sighed. "I've _told_ you. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Except that my wife abandoned me, and is apparently so put off by the thought of me that she won't even return a letter." He took a long draw off his pint and settled back in his chair. "But we're not here to talk about me and my _crumbling_ marriage, we're here to talk about you and your _potential_ marriage."

Sam let out a breath. "Right," she replied. "I just don't know. I like Joe, a lot. But everything will change if I marry him."

"Change doesn't have to be bad, Sam," was his steady, reasonable reply.

"I know," she conceded. "I suppose part of the problem is . . . I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know how appealing settling down is just yet."

"Bit of a crossroads, then."

"Yes."

Paul stared into the empty fireplace for a long moment. "You know, Sam," he said quietly, "the thing about crossroads is . . . you don't have to turn." He turned to glance at her and found her eyes fixed in the same direction his had been. "You can go straight through. There's absolutely nothing wrong with continuing down the road you're on, even if it takes you the long way round to your destination."

She turned to look at him, thoughts whirling through her head. "I think you might be at one of those too, Paul," she replied. "Only you absolutely need to turn. Jane betrayed you, and she broke your heart, but in a year or so, you'll be rid of her. And then some lovely girl will snatch you up and love you and never let you go."

He smiled affectionately at her. "I hope so, Sam." And then he couldn't help a tease. "As for you, best of luck to whoever manages to tie you down, whether that's Joe or not. Poor chap will need it."

She slapped him playfully on the shoulder and laughed.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading!<p>

Jacqui


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: There are bits of Milner's storyline that make me a little ragey. Some of it occurs in Bleak Midwinter – the downright flippant way he admits to lying to Mr. Foyle about his marital status, as though a) it meant nothing at all to Milner, and b) Milner and Foyle hadn't already had a come-to-Jesus meeting about how Foyle needed to be able to trust Milner implicitly._

_So, this is the part where the story officially comes off the rails. I hope you will stick with me, and I look forward to hearing what you have to say._

_Also, a ginormous thanks to my beta GiuliettaC, without whom you might not understand a word of the following._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>It was disturbing, looking down at Sam as she lay in her hospital bed. It didn't seem like Sam at all. The girl in the bed seemed smaller and paler than Sam had ever been. Her dark chocolate eyes were hollow; the only thing she wanted to know was what was wrong with her, and when she could expect to feel better. She had work to do, after all.<p>

It didn't appear to occur to her that she might die, but the prospect upset Paul to no end, and it frustrated him that Mr. Foyle did not ask for, and did not appear to require, his assistance in discovering either what made Sam ill, or what could make her better.

He could only continue to do his job to the best of his ability. When Paul had served in the military, he'd been a corporal, and a good one – a soldier who was perfectly adept at following orders. The work itself, and the pecking order, hadn't been all that different from being a constable. Now he was Mr. Foyle's sergeant, which sometimes required the same skill, and he could hark back to it easily enough, particularly if whatever Mr. Foyle needed him to do was going to help Sam.

When all was said and done, and Sam was finally on the mend, he sat at her bedside while she rested and held her hand, reading to her from a well-loved copy of _Bull-dog Drummond_.

"Paul?" Sam's voice was quiet, raspy from disuse and her illness.

He stopped reading and shifted his gaze to Sam, eyebrows raised in inquiry.

"Terribly sorry for interrupting," she said. "My mind's not really on the story. I was wondering something."

Paul closed the book, keeping his index finger at the page where he'd stopped. "Yes?"

"Who's been driving Mr. Foyle?"

"Sergeant Brooke," Paul replied. He wanted to smile, but didn't; he knew Sam was a little territorial.

"Is he doing a good job?"

He leaned a little closer, and set the book down next to her hand on the bed. "Yes, I suppose he is. Mr. Foyle's being well looked-after. What makes you ask?"

Sam let out a breath. "I don't want to be replaced." She finally looked at him when she said this, and Paul mused that she was plainly miserable.

"Impossible," he said simply.

"It's not. You know as well as I do – everyone is replaceable."

But Paul shook his head. "No, Sam – and I'm not just being kind or condescending. Brooke can drive, but anyone can – _I_ might be able to drive one day, given enough time and cars to crash while working it out without a left foot. And of course Brooke will chatter, like you do sometimes, but it's really just chatter. He's not trying to wheedle details out of Mr. Foyle; he's not all that curious about whatever we might be after."

"I think that might be a nice change for Mr. Foyle."

"Why do you say that, Sam?" Paul's tone was vaguely chiding.

Sam rolled her head to one side in frustration. "Oh, I don't know. I just feel so utterly useless."

He held her hand a little tighter. "You're very sick, Sam."

"Thank you for reminding me, Dr. Milner."

Paul chuckled. "You always talk about what you think the solution might be," he said. "You're not afraid of giving your opinion, which I think _has _made Mr. Foyle irritated on occasion, but just as often – maybe even _more _often – you've asked a question neither of us have thought of, or you've pointed something out that one of us thinks is a mundane detail." Paul paused to let her think a moment. "I've told you before; you're _important_. You said that Mr. Foyle told you as much yesterday, and who do you trust more than him? But also, Sam . . . you're important to me. You're my friend – one of my best."

Sam's eyes softened as she looked up at Paul. "Truly?"

He nodded. "Absolutely. I really am sorry for Private Farnetti, but I'm glad you decided to stay in Hastings because I couldn't do without you. And actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about."

"What is it?"

"Well . . . I told you about my friend from school, Edith."

"Yes – it was her brother in trouble, wasn't it? Martin?"

"That's right." Paul looked contemplatively at their hands – Sam's fingertips resting in the bowl of his palm. It was comfortable, but he kept expecting her to pull them away. He wasn't sure why. "At school, I was infatuated with Edith. She was very pretty – she's still very pretty – and she was always kind." Paul met Sam's tired eyes and smiled gently. "She . . . more or less asked . . . she wanted us to get together."

Sam smiled back, but the sunshine that usually lit her face wasn't there. Paul noted it, but attributed it to her illness. There was a painful rasp, verging on a catch, in her voice when she said, "That's _wonderful_, Paul. Really."

He lifted his shoulder and blushed self-consciously. "I, erm . . . I put her off. I know when we talked last week you said I needed to turn – and that would've been a turn – but I couldn't. She was dishonest with me when I was trying to help her, and with everything that happened with Jane. . . ." He let his words trail off, and looked down at their hands, in casual repose at her side. "Besides, it's been a long time. We're not the same people we were at school." He paused again, and looked up at her. "So. You didn't turn at the crossroads . . . neither did I."

A brighter smile seemed to play around Sam's lips. "Of course I stand by my advice," she began, and squeezed his fingertips. "But you've got to turn at just the right spot. It must've felt all wrong."

He nodded. "It did."

She mimicked him, and then flashed him the briefest of patented Samantha Stewart smiles, accompanied by a short puff of laughter. "When it's the right turn, you'll know. I promise."

He couldn't help squeezing her fingers in return. "How did Private Farnetti take it?"

Sam thought a moment before she replied, "Gracefully. Joe was hurt – oh, I hated that – but he handled it well. But it was the right thing to do, I'm sure of that." And then a ferocious yawn caught her, and she pulled her hand away to cover her mouth.

Paul chuckled. "Do you want me to leave you?"

Sam shook her head, and her hand found the book he'd laid next to her. She picked it up and examined the cover. "'Bull-dog Drummond . . . Detective, Patriot, Hero, and Gentleman,'" she read. Then she handed the book to Paul. "Read to me until I fall asleep?"

He nodded and smiled, and accepted the book. Their hands found each other again, and Sam made herself comfortable, and Paul's soothing voice eased her into slumber.

* * *

><p><em><strong>December 1942<strong>_

For a man schooled in loneliness – a man who'd only had a sibling for four precious years, whose parents had both died by the time he was six, who'd been raised by a grandmother who wasn't particularly interested in her grandson, who'd lost a leg, and whose wife had left him after five years of marriage over something he had little control over, Paul Milner had never felt so profoundly alone.

Mr. Foyle was in the throes of investigating an attack on his estranged wife, with whom he'd argued – rather publicly – a day or so ago. Jane hadn't died, but it had been close. She'd lost a lot of blood, wasn't conscious, and couldn't tell anyone what had happened. And this was why Paul felt so isolated.

Because in the absence of, and sometimes despite, testimony from a victim, all that was left was evidence. The advantage of evidence was that, given the appropriate context, it would sometimes say so much more than a person ever could. The problem was that all the evidence seemed to point to him. He'd been suspended, and all he could really do was wait for the right evidence to surface.

Paul knew he was innocent, and felt sure Mr. Foyle ought to know that as well, but of course that wasn't even close to being enough. He'd been interrogated in the kindest possible way by Mr. Foyle, who'd asked the questions he needed to ask – uncomfortable ones about why Paul had lied about being divorced – unblinkingly. It made Paul both admire Mr. Foyle more, and want to promptly hand in his resignation out of sheer mortification.

He mused as he trudged home in the cold that Sam had said he'd had nothing to be ashamed of. He ought to have listened to her. He realized how much he wanted to talk to her when he arrived at his empty and cold house. But she was helping Mr. Foyle help him – in between pining for a confiscated turkey, he smiled affectionately to himself – and he'd just have to wait to be needed.

Just as he'd waited to be needed by his wife again, although that had never happened. Nor was it likely to happen now, whether she woke again or not. If Jane did wake, there was a long-overdue conversation they were going to have. Because – and this was another thing that Sam had been right about – Jane hadn't just broken his heart. It had been much worse than that.

Jane had broken her vows. He'd known she hadn't been faithful; he'd known she was expecting someone else's child. And what had he done about it? He'd waited – he'd hoped that she, out of necessity, would simply ignore the fact that it was impossible for any child she might be carrying to be his, as he was prepared to do. He'd waited for her to tell him that she was expecting. He'd done it because he'd known that his leaving had hurt her, and he wanted to give her the time she needed to come to terms with his injury. Raising someone else's child would be the price he'd pay for that, and he would gladly do so it if it meant she'd be happy. There were much worse circumstances that befell returning soldiers. He'd do it because he loved Jane, because he wanted her to love him again, and because damn it, he _wanted _to be a father, but mostly, he now realized, because he wanted Jane to _need_ him.

But she hadn't. She'd left instead.

So he wasn't going to wait anymore. He didn't love Jane anymore, but if she died, he'd mourn her passing, and he'd mourn the loss of a truth he'd never hear from her. But with a little bit of luck, maybe she'd wake. She'd tell Mr. Foyle what happened, and Paul could be reinstated. And then there would be the kind of conversation that had never happened – not even when things were at their best – during his marriage.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, Jane did wake. Mr. Foyle had already handled Constable Peters, and Harry Osborne was safely in custody. Mrs. Summersgill apologized to Paul about the things she'd said about him, causing Paul to wonder what those things might have been. She wondered why she hadn't seen Paul at the hospital when she visited Jane. Paul was sure Jane was wondering the same, but he was taking his time. It was Jane's turn to wait.<p>

When he was ready, he made his way over to the hospital. She'd been there for roughly a week. Aside from knowing that she was awake and was recovering, he didn't know much about her condition, but he did know that their conversation was going to be uncomfortable.

He asked for the sister when he arrived, and questioned her about whether Jane could answer some difficult questions. She indicated that she thought Jane would be well enough, but they would have to keep their voices down.

Paul took a deep breath and walked in the direction that the sister had shown him. Jane was sitting up in bed, still a little pale, and clearly tired. Bandages were wound around her head and there was some purple bruising around her left temple. He thought he'd prepared himself, but seeing her looking so poorly was a bit of a shock.

She looked up from the book she'd been reading, closing it as she set it aside. "Hello Paul," she said.

With no little amount of surprise, Paul heard Sam Stewart's voice in his head. _"She always looked so . . . I don't know . . . _pinched_." _Paul stared at his wife a moment while he absorbed the truth of yet another of his friend's observations. After a long moment, he drew in a breath and turned his hat in his hands once. "Hello."

She tilted her chin up slightly. "What took you so long to visit?"

It was fortunate for Paul that she chose to criticize him almost immediately, because it made him remember that he was angry with her. He ignored her query and moved a nearby chair next to her bed, and sat down. "How are you?" He did care, although it sounded as though he didn't.

Jane didn't seem to note the distinction. Her cheeks colored a little, and she moved her chin down. "It doesn't hurt as much. I'm feeling better and should be discharged in a few days."

He nodded. "Good. I'm glad." She smiled, and he remembered being charmed by that smile so many years ago. He wasn't charmed now. "Jane, we have to talk."

"About what?" she asked, as though they'd ever actually had a conversation about anything.

"Someone tried to kill you," he said. "Someone else tried to frame me for it. If you'd died, and Mr. Foyle wasn't quite so good at his job, I might've hung. That kind of thing tends to throw one's life into sharp focus."

She shook her head condescendingly. "But I didn't die, and Mr. Foyle saved you from being blamed for it. You're all right."

"You _didn't_ die," he conceded, adjusting himself in the chair, "and yes, Mr. Foyle _did_ solve the case." He nodded, and made sure he had Jane's full attention. "But I'm far from all right."

Her eyes softened. "Paul, darling–"

The pet name put him immediately on edge; his voice lowered and his cheeks burned. "_Don't _call me darling."

Jane scowled at him. "Did you just come here to tell me you're not going to take me back?"

He paused a few beats to soften his tone. "No. I did come because I want a divorce, and I want to move on. But also because I deserve to know what happened." His eyes didn't waver from hers, which, he noted, were a little fearful. "This is long overdue, Jane."

"I don't understand," she whispered, but he knew she did.

"All right. I'll be blunt. I know you were expecting when you left. The second time, in October."

His wife's face paled to matched the sheets, and she swallowed hard. Tears threatened, but Paul was far beyond allowing Jane's tears to move him.

"I was."

He felt heat creep up his cheeks as he remembered her indignation a few days ago as they'd sat down to tea and she demanded to know if he was seeing someone. "With whose child?"

"Does it matter?"

"If you'll recall, Jane, it _does_."

She let out a breath and studied the blanket. "Kate's neighbor," she replied. "Mark Duncan."

"And how long has that been going on?"

"Paul. . . ."

"How _long_?" His voice was sharp enough, hard enough that she looked up at him.

"Just after you enlisted," she admitted. "When you left for training, I went to Kate's. I didn't want to be alone."

He closed his eyes and turned away. "Three _years_." He was disgusted, with himself as much as with her. He knew he'd missed it, but how on earth had he missed it for _that long_? He turned back toward her and with great effort, managed to meet her eyes. "That's a little less than _half_ of our marriage. And a week ago, you just waltzed back into my life as if that were nothing?"

She swallowed. "I never meant for it to happen," she said. "It just sort of . . . did."

"That's not much comfort, Jane."

Jane's face contorted into an angry scowl. "You _left_ me!" she spat. "You left me and you came back _broken_."

"I _enlisted_," he snapped back, ignoring her reference to his missing leg. "Honestly, Jane, there's a _war _going on – hundreds of thousands of men have enlisted, and all too many haven't come back _at all_. It's _you_ that left me – when I was at my lowest ebb, I might add. It's _you _that couldn't manage to stay the course."

Jane glared at him, then looked away.

"Where is the baby?"

"I gave him up," she answered quietly, and Paul saw her eyes fill with tears for the first time. "Delivering him was awful. It was over a year before anyone wanted him – no one wants a boy just to raise him and send him off to war. But about a month ago a nice couple from Bristol came . . . he'd been invalided out of the navy and always wanted a son. So he took mine."

Paul took a moment, for the love he once felt for Jane Parker, and tried to sympathize with a woman who'd given up her child. "I would have been prepared to love him," he whispered. "If you'd stayed. I still loved _you,_ back then. I would've loved your son – as my own. You _know_ I would have."

Jane nodded. "I _do_ know. That's why I left. I didn't want him."

"Why don't you want children? And when did you decide that?"

Jane was quiet for a long moment. "I thought I did want children," she said at length, "when we were first engaged. I don't think I wanted them as much as you did – I've never met a man who wants children as much as you do. But I thought one. . . ." She shook her head, and swiped tears off her cheeks. "The summer after we married, in July, I had a miscarriage."

Paul was stunned. "You miscarried?"

She nodded, fiddling with the blanket again. "The doctor said it was nothing to worry about, that those things happened every day. I hadn't even known I was expecting, and it didn't hurt, so it didn't bother me very much. But that autumn – I think it was October – I was expecting again, and I knew. And I loved it. And as soon as I realized it was there, it died."

He looked and felt like he'd been punched in the belly. "You were expecting, and you knew . . . Jane, I don't . . . why didn't you tell me?"

She snapped her head up again and glared at him. "What was I going to say? 'I'm sorry, darling, we had a baby but I couldn't seem to keep it alive. . . .' Is that what you wanted me to tell you?"

He shook his head at her, his eyes round. "Jane, don't you _know_ I would _never_ have blamed you?"

She held his gaze. He thought she might disagree for a moment, but she didn't. She continued calmly. "I couldn't stand how much it hurt. I couldn't stand how terrible I felt. And I knew that's what would happen every time. So I decided that I wasn't going to risk it again. . . . I took preventive measures."

"What measures?" His eyes narrowed, and he hardly knew how to feel.

"I was fitted for a cervical cap."

"You were _what_?" Paul's tone was incredulous.

"We weren't having children either way. I wasn't preventing children; I was preventing other miscarriages." Paul only stared back at her. "I thought it would prevent anything happening with Mark, but apparently they don't always work."

Paul's heartbeat quickened, and heat crept up his cheeks. "You let me think it was _me_," he seethed. "You let me think _I_ was the reason we didn't have a family. You let me _apologize_ to you for that."

"That's not what I intended," she replied weakly. "I just didn't want to have to go through it again."

"And you thought what – that I'd make you do it? Do you really think so little of me, Jane? That I would focus so intently on what I wanted that I'd overlook your suffering?"

"I don't know," she admitted, sniffling.

Paul took a deep breath to try to calm his anger. Confusion and pain – a standard in the last handful of days – drove his questions. "Why didn't you just _tell_ me?"

"Because you would've tried to convince me otherwise. And I didn't want it anymore – if I could feel so terribly inadequate, so much pain, losing a child I barely knew I had, how on earth was I to deal with being a mother – having a sick child, an injured one – one I couldn't keep safe because of this stupid bloody war?"

"We were supposed to face these things together – that's what husbands and wives do; it's what parents do. Those weren't just _your_ losses, Jane, they were _mine,_ too. I deserved to know about them."

But Jane just shook her head. "I married you because you were kind and quiet, and reserved. Life with you was supposed to be the same way."

Paul felt again as though she'd struck him, and sat for a moment in stunned silence. He held her gaze a moment and then looked away, trying to stave off the tears that threatened. A nurse stopped at Jane's bedside, and told him that visiting hours were over; he'd have to go home.

"I married _you_," he told her quietly, "because I _loved _you." And he rose and left the hospital.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading!<p>

Jacqui


	4. Chapter 4

**_RATHER IMPORTANT EDIT:_**

_I've just realized I forgot to thank GiuliettaC, my ever-patient beta reader. I'm so sorry!_

_It's a bit long... apologies in advance, and I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>December, 1942<strong>

Since Jane had been attacked, Paul hadn't felt much like eating. He cooked at night, because it was his habit, but most of it remained uneaten. On Saturday afternoon, the day after he'd spoken to Jane, he navigated around his kitchen – on crutches, just because he could – pawing through his larder, and tossed fresh and leftover vegetables together with some stock, a tiny bit of chicken, and a few sprigs of dried parsley to make a stew. He set it on the hob to simmer for dinner and then made himself a cup of tea. Just before he sat down to pour it, someone knocked on the door. He considered not answering it a moment, but decided he'd better.

When he did, he was glad he had, because Sam was standing on his doorstep. She was surprised to find him on crutches; he was surprised to see her at all.

"Sam," he said, startled a little. "What are you doing out in the cold?"

She smiled, despite his abrupt greeting. "Just checking up on you. I hoped you wouldn't mind my stopping by – I don't live too far away, really. My landlady saved me a bit of carrot cake from Christmas lunch; I thought you might like to share." She held up a wax paper bundle. "And I thought you might enjoy a friendly face."

He softened and had the decency to look sheepish. Despite his surprise, and the fact that he didn't really want Sam to see him on crutches, Paul smiled and opened the door for her. "I would," he said gratefully. "I'm sorry, Sam. Will you come in? I'm just having tea."

Sam nodded and went inside, and thanked him when he took her hat and overcoat. She followed him to the kitchen and set the wax paper-wrapped cake on the table. "Smells divine in here!" she exclaimed as she approached the stove, eyeing the simmering stew.

He smiled at her enthusiasm and pulled an extra cup down from the cupboard. "Just leftovers. Would you like tea?"

Sam assented readily. "Yes, I'd be grateful. It's rather cold – even for late December."

Paul poured the tea evenly between the two cups, which Sam brought to the kitchen table; he pulled down two plates from the cupboard and handed them to her. He retrieved forks and maneuvered himself over to the table, where he sat down with Sam.

She busied herself a moment serving the cake; he thanked her and they ate for a moment in comfortable silence. But Sam, being Sam, couldn't abide silence for long.

"Is your leg all right?" she asked. "I haven't seen you on crutches since we first met."

He smiled to reassure her. "It's fine. On Saturdays after the shopping's done I usually go without the leg, if I can. I don't want to forget how to manage on crutches."

"You do it rather deftly."

It was an innocent enough comment, but it caught Paul off-guard and he didn't quite know how to respond. "The cake is nice," he said, to sidestep the subject.

"I think it could do with more sugar – but then I think everything could do with more sugar. Thank you for the tea."

"You're welcome," he replied as he sipped his.

"I don't suppose you want to talk about anything," she surmised aloud.

He smiled. "Nothing personal, no," he said. "But you're very welcome, Sam. I like having you around."

"Well we can't just pass an entire visit _not_ talking," she protested.

"Do you ever do _anything_ and not talk?" wondered Paul, his face deadpan.

Sam smiled at him. "Sleep," she offered. Then she paused to consider more honestly. "At least I don't _think _I talk in my sleep." That got a laugh out of him, even if it was a short burst and the humor didn't linger in his eyes.

"Just tell me one thing," she pressed.

He studied her a moment. "All right. What do you want to know?"

"Are you going to take her back?" Sam's brows knitted in concern – a clear sign to Paul of how she hoped he'd answer her question.

He pushed the cake around his plate a moment, and then shook his head. "No. I'm having the papers drawn up."

She nodded, and smiled a very tiny bit; if Paul didn't know her so well he'd have thought it was just a quirk of her lips. "Have you spoken to her?"

"Yesterday," he confirmed. "She's still in hospital; but she's doing well and she'll be out in a few days. She'll stay with Mrs. Summersgill until she finds somewhere to settle."

Sam didn't want to push farther than Paul had invited her to, but simply couldn't help herself. "What happened to the baby?" she asked, and her hand crept across the table to cover Paul's.

"She gave him up. It was a boy." Paul enjoyed the contact and didn't move his hand.

"Maybe she was trying to be kind, staying away. Maybe she didn't want to hurt you by being a reminder that you couldn't have children together," suggested Sam.

He raised his eyebrows. "I very much doubt that, honestly. But apparently, we _could_ have children together," he informed her. "She miscarried twice, and never told me. And then. . . ." He shook his head, and didn't want to go into too many details. "But it doesn't matter, not really. Not anymore."

"Oh, Paul." Sam squeezed his hand, and wasn't quite sure what to say for a moment. "Well. It's all out, then?"

"Yes. And over completely."

She nodded and sensed, correctly, that Paul was also over talking about it. "Have you seen Edith?" she asked, to change the subject. He shook his head. "Do you regret turning her down?"

"No," he replied. "I don't want to be someone's preferred alternative to spinsterhood. That's apparently what I am to Jane, and that hasn't turned out well for anyone."

Sam regarded him a moment, and then raised her brows. "For what it's worth, Paul, I think you've done the right thing. Undoubtedly the more difficult thing, amongst a handful of days of difficult things . . . which must make it all the more painful."

Paul smiled softly at her. "You're a good friend, Sam."

"Hardly," she replied flippantly, taking the last bite of her cake. "You said you didn't want to talk about anything, and here we are talking about it."

He laughed a little, and felt himself relax a little. "Maybe that's what makes you such a good friend." He paused and considered her, as she sat at his table, utterly guileless and sincere. "Thank you."

"Any time, Paul," she replied easily.

He unwound a little more as she chattered happily on about this and that. When the tea had been drunk and the cake eaten, he walked her home. On his way back, he thought about how different his life would be but for Sam. He'd most likely spend a lot of time alone in his sitting room, pretending to read for no one's sake but his own. She really was extraordinary, he thought – the truest friend he had.

* * *

><p><em><strong>February 1943<strong>_

Paul knew that Sam was approaching his office. He'd learned the sound of her lighter footfalls, and ordinarily the sound would have caused a thrill of anticipation to run up his spine; he'd sit up straighter and would've looked up to drink in her smiling face.

Today, however, he kept his eyes locked on the documents he was reading. The collection of paper in front of him wasn't simply a police report. These were the documents which finalized his divorce. Jane was officially free of him, which was, evidently, what she wanted. She'd stayed with Mrs. Summersgill for a few weeks once she was discharged from hospital. Then she'd applied for a position in the Women's Royal Naval Service, to which she was accepted, and she was off to Portsmouth.

Strangely, his own life would go back to the way it had been during the two years she'd been gone. He pondered that for a moment and wondered how happy he'd really be. Jane was out of his life, which was what he wanted – what he'd told Mr. Foyle, regrettably, that he'd wanted – and it seemed he was in for the quiet and reserved life that Jane had expected when they'd gotten married. He very much doubted she'd experience that with the Wrens.

In the hallway, Sam's footfalls drew nearer, and then he heard her knock on the frame of his open door. He looked up, and smiled despite his heavy thoughts. "Hello, Sam."

"Still at it?" she asked.

He nodded. "For a little while," he said.

Sam stepped further into his office then, her hands folded in front of her. The combined scent of her face cream and the leather of her gauntlets wafted to his nose, and he unconsciously breathed more deeply.

"I've just dropped off Mr. Foyle," she said conversationally. "I was about to push off home."

Paul realized he hadn't really seen much of either of them that day. "Adventurous day today, driving him – where was it?"

"Ramsgate, and thereabouts," she said, and moved to sit down in one of the chairs opposite Paul. She pulled off her gloves. "Wasn't very talkative – well, you know how Mr. Foyle can be. But he did let one or two interesting things slip."

"Did he happen to work out who's been nicking eggs from Mrs. Martinson's hens?" asked Paul with a smile in his eyes. "It's the least of my worries but it's of utmost importance to Mrs. Martinson – she's complained to Brooke three times in the last week."

Sam smiled back at him. "I'm afraid not."

Paul took a long look at her, and then creased his brow and leaned forward on his desk. "Erm . . . listen, Sam. . . . I got the papers, from the solicitor. Everything's been signed by Jane, so . . . it's done. And I just wanted to thank you for everything, for being such a good friend during all of this."

She blushed a little and shook her head, not knowing what to say. "Don't mention it. You've been a good friend to me, as well."

"I try."

"Feel like a drink?"

"Honestly? No." Paul shook his head. "Might feel too much like celebrating."

"Well, I could get you a cup of tea, since you'll be here a while. I'm not sure what else is in the kitchen, but I could have a look."

"That'd be nice. Thank you, Sam."

She smiled brightly and popped up from her seat, headed for the kitchen. Paul watched her go.

When he was a young constable, Paul had had a favorite sergeant called Edwards. Sergeant Edwards had taken a shine to Paul and they'd developed something like a father-son relationship. Edwards had been a confirmed bachelor and as strait-laced as they came, even more so than Paul himself. But Edwards would occasionally be vocal about his admiration of a lady or two, although the casual observer wouldn't ever know. His telltale phrase was an affectionate, "There's a solid girl."

Had he still been alive, Edwards would've called Sam 'solid'. Paul was sure girls didn't like to be called such things, but that described Sam perfectly.

Sam's head was solidly attached to her shoulders. She was optimistic and bubbly, but even if Foyle found her much too chatty at first, she wasn't flighty and she had a clear view of what was right and wrong. Sam solidly understood herself, and in those rare times when she didn't – as when Joe Farnetti had proposed to her – she at least knew enough to not make rash decisions. Sam was a solid friend who was always there, and when she couldn't be, she followed up to make sure things were all right. Sam was a solid performer on the job. She looked for ways she could be useful, even when she was just waiting for Mr. Foyle.

But there were other words that described Sam, and those were the words that concerned Paul most – words like warm and kind and honest. Honey and cream and chocolate. Energy and happiness and hope. Those were the words he wanted to explore with her.

Paul was starting to realize how deep his emotions for Sam ran. And with every new realization – every desire to weave his fingers into her glorious copper-blonde hair, every intake of breath he prolonged because of her scent, every smile he returned for just a beat too long – came an accompanying jolt of reality.

Sam was a colleague. He was divorced.

_Too rich for your blood_, Edwards would say.

It wasn't that Paul didn't feel he deserved Sam. He wasn't proud by any means, but he knew he was a good man with a respectable profession who could easily provide for a family.

But Sam would do better with someone just a little younger, just a little livelier, just a little more two-legged than he was. And more to the point, considering her clerical father, just a little less divorced.

Shaking his head to try to clear his thoughts, Paul rose and paced his office. Then he picked up a folder from his desk – he should've written the report on that case several days ago, but such reports were never-ending and would only finish up in a filing cabinet.

He kept his eyes steadfastly on the paper when Sam walked back into his office. "Nothing but tea, I'm afraid. Not sure there's been much for a few days." She set the teacup down on the desk; it wobbled a bit inside its saucer, so her hand lingered to steady it. Paul reached blindly for the tea, and so was unprepared to encounter her soft hand rather than the rim of the cup.

He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The hand was warm – Sam's hands were always warm. He didn't move, and nor did she.

"I've brought you tea," she said, unnecessarily.

"Thank you." He swallowed. "Sam."

It felt like an eternity and a breath all at the same time, but when she turned her palm up and their fingertips caressed each other, Paul was jolted back into the now. He opened his eyes and shifted his gaze down to where their hands were warming their acquaintance.

"Your hands are beautiful," he whispered.

Sam's face was bright pink when he looked into it, and her eyes were slightly rounded. She was as surprised as he was about what he'd just said.

"Really?" she whispered back.

Paul's head swam; his eyes shifted to Sam's lips and lingered there, but he suppressed every thought of kissing them as he cleared his throat and squeezed her hand. "Really. And thank you for the tea." His voice was deeper than she'd ever heard it.

"It was no trouble." She felt more shy now than she'd ever been with Paul. "Don't stay too long. You need your rest."

He tightened his grip momentarily before letting go of her hand. "I won't," he smiled. "Good night, Sam."

"Night, Paul." Sam's cheeks still glowed bright pink as she turned to leave his office and the station.

* * *

><p><strong>March, 1943<strong>

Samantha Stewart was going to be sacked.

It wasn't unexpected at all; really, the whole station knew, as soon as they'd heard DCS Foyle had resigned, that his driver wouldn't last long. Her placement with the Hastings police had been highly irregular – a way to placate Foyle so he'd stay in his position. That was, of course, how AC Parkins saw things.

While Sam herself knew these things to be true as well, she had a slightly higher stake in all of it. She'd take her sacking like the vicar's daughter she was, with dignity, resignation, and stoicism. She would continue to try very hard to not be upset with Mr. Foyle. She would not take it personally at all.

But she would sorely miss all of it. One never knew what was available in terms of war work, and Sam found herself thinking, on her way to the station on the day following Mr. Foyle's resignation, of every other horrible job she'd ever heard of. She dreaded having to find something new, knowing that she wouldn't enjoy anything so much as she had driving Mr. Foyle.

When she arrived, Sergeant Brooke's greeting was affectionate as ever, but a bit more subdued than usual. "Mornin', Miss Stewart."

"Good morning, Brookie." Sam stopped in front of the desk, drew in a deep breath, and blew it out again. "I suppose Mr. Parkins wants to see me?"

Brooke nodded. "Yes, he does," the sergeant quietly replied.

Sam nodded once and walked briskly, with her chin up, to her sacking.

When she exited what used to be DCS Foyle's office five efficient minutes later, Paul was waiting for her. All she had to do was look at him, and his suspicions were confirmed.

With a rumpled brow, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sam. I wish there were something I could do."

"Don't worry, Paul," she said as she approached. "It's all right. I should be able to speak to someone at the labor exchange today – it's early still. Might even have something new lined up by the time the sun goes down."

But the worried look didn't budge from Paul's face. "Why don't you go in tomorrow?" he suggested. "It's okay to have a day off occasionally, you know."

"Nonsense." Sam dismissed his concern. "I've got Saturday and Sunday off. In the meantime, there's work to be done."

Paul smiled at her affectionately. "Let me walk you home, at least."

"All right," she agreed.

Sam followed him to his office, where he collected his hat and overcoat. She waited patiently while he put them on, trying not to dwell on the fact that she wasn't likely to be setting foot in his office ever again.

She was already trying not to think of the fact that there would be no more waiting for Mr. Foyle, no more details to wheedle out of him, no more time in the driver's seat trying to determine what was going through the mind of the man next to her. She hadn't considered at first that this also meant she wouldn't see any more of her other frequent passenger, Paul, and it confused her to realize that this made her more profoundly sad than having to change jobs.

Paul took her arm and led her to the lobby, where Brooke kissed her cheek and wished her well. With the growing realization that his was another face she wouldn't see every day, Sam began to feel a little dazed. Paul told the desk sergeant that he was going to see her home, and before she'd realized that they were leaving, she found herself outside on the pavement, being led in the direction of her digs.

Just up the street, Sam stopped, and brought Paul to a halt with her, confusion written on her face.

"Sam?" Paul's big hands took her by the upper arms. "Sam, are you all right? Do you want to have a cup of tea first?"

She shook her head. "No," she replied, and was surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. "I just . . . I didn't expect it to happen so quickly." She gazed up into Paul's face, and locked her eyes on his.

"What did AC Parkins say?" Paul's eyes narrowed in inquiry.

"Almost nothing," she shrugged. "It was all straight to the point. He asked me how I'd got the position in the first place; I told him I wasn't certain, but thought it was some string or other someone had pulled because Mr. Foyle doesn't drive. He told me I wasn't needed now that Mr. Foyle wouldn't be holding the position any longer. He rather looked at me as though that were _my_ fault." She looked away for a moment, across the street at a lamp post rendered useless by blackouts, and then back at Paul. "He wasn't interested in hearing that there are other things I could do; he just . . . dismissed me."

Sam's voice caught on the last two words; Paul felt his chest tighten for her pain. He wanted to pull her closer, rest her head on his chest and comfort her. But if Paul gave in to his wants, that wouldn't be where it ended. His imagination had already leaped ahead to pulling the pins out of her hair and slipping open the top button of her blouse. . . .

He cleared his throat. "Let's get you home," he suggested mildly, offering his arm again.

Sam's billet wasn't terribly far from the station, but it felt like an eternity on that cold March morning. In between her wandering thoughts, she made desultory attempts to engage Paul in conversation, but her heart wasn't really in it – and bless him, he didn't press her. But that was the wonderful thing about Paul; he was such a good friend, he knew she needed him, and also knew she didn't quite know how to feel about things yet.

In the meantime, Paul's mind was racing. For him, the walk wasn't nearly long enough. His thoughts were sharply focused on what he could and could not say to Sam. He knew they would keep in touch, so he wasn't worried about never seeing her again. He tried to put his finger on precisely what _was_ worrying him. Like Sam, he was disappointed that their days of working so closely together were at and end. He wanted her to know that their relationship was important to him, but didn't know how much to reveal to her. He knew – he'd known for a while – he couldn't ever act on his feelings, but he still wanted her to be a part of his life.

But all too soon they were at the house, and Sam had climbed the front steps, her hand resting on the doorknob. In the next instant the door was open, and in just a moment she'd step through it and he'd miss the chance to say any of what was swirling through his head.

_Mind your own beat_, Edwards would say.

Sam was not a colleague any longer. But he was still divorced.

_It's now or it may be never._

"Sam. . . ." he began.

Sam turned and walked down the steps, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Paul took a shaky breath. "You'll drop in, won't you? Occasionally?"

"The station?" she clarified with a smile. "Of course, Paul."

"Good." He nodded awkwardly. "You'll be missed, you know, Sam."

"I'll miss it – all of it – terribly." Sam shook her head. "You and Mr. Foyle and the others . . . and being certain that I'm doing something worthwhile."

Paul was quick to reassure her. "Whatever you do will be worthwhile, Sam."

She looked down, dismissing the idea. "But not _nearly_ as interesting or exciting."

"You could type my reports in your spare time, if that would help make you feel a part of it all."

Sam understood his joke, but didn't smile. "I might take you up on that."

Paul looked her over; she was wearing the same plainly miserable expression she'd worn when she was still in hospital recovering from anthrax, convinced that Brooke was goign to replace her. "Sam," he began, knowing he'd say too much, "maybe you should know – I never told you – how much I admire you. Your next job aside, you're important to the people around you, and I don't want you to lose sight of that. You mustn't think that a more mundane job makes you less valuable – you're so . . . you mean so _much_ to me, Sam."

Never had he wish more dearly that he'd been given Mr. Foyle's gift for clever turn of phrase.

Sam stared at Paul for a moment, not knowing what to say. Along with the word that gave her pause – _admire_ – there was a fond regard in his eyes, a more tender look than she'd ever seen there. She wanted desperately to respond in a way that wouldn't leave him feeling foolish, and began with, "Paul, I-"

"Miss Stewart!"

Startled, Sam turned to find her landlady scowling at her from the door, which Sam had left slightly ajar.

"I am NOT heating the south coast! Kindly decide whether you are coming or going!"

"S-sorry, Mrs. Goswick!" stammered Sam, but the landlady had already closed the door. She sighed and turned to Paul with an apologetic smile. "Oh dear. I suppose I'd better get inside . . . and you'd better get back to the station."

Paul nodded. "Yes, I'd better."

She put her hand on his upper arm and met his eyes earnestly. "Just . . . thank you."

"I mean it, Sam." With a tender expression, he reached for her. The backs of his fingers caressed her jaw softly, and his thumb dawdled around her earlobe. He leaned down, and being very careful not to linger, kissed her cheek before he smiled once more and turned away.

Sam watched his uneven gait as he walked away along the pavement. Her earlobe tingled.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading!<p>

Jacqui


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